


Which Way the Cold Wind Blows

by westernredcedar



Series: Get Better One by One [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU from Season 11, Angst, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Family, Healing from the past, M/M, POV Mickey, Post-Season/Series 10, They have lots of issues, but not with each other, gentrification, they both have jobs, they're working it out, way too much smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27931459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernredcedar/pseuds/westernredcedar
Summary: “I got a little holiday bonus from work today. Thought we should try to make something out of it this year. Get a tree and maybe do stockings for everyone.”Mickey’s never had any of these things.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Get Better One by One [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2045281
Comments: 80
Kudos: 300





	1. Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Starting a little Christmas-themed series in the same universe as _All This Time_ , in which (amongst other things) Ian and Mickey have reached out to Clayton and started getting to know him and Jacob to deal with that whole part of Ian's life. Hope to add to this over the next couple of weeks while I'm in the holiday mood. Expect fluffy domestic with a few angsty moments to keep us all honest.

*

“Any Milkovich shit you want to make sure we do for Christmas?” 

Ian drops this bomb casually one evening after the Gallagher clan have finished off two frozen lasagnas and then dispersed back out into the world. He’s doing the dishes and Mickey is at the table taking a screwdriver to the failing toaster to see if it can be salvaged.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Mickey asks, not looking up and hoping his voice hides how his stomach drops at the mention of the holidays. 

“Like, traditions or something. It’s weird we’ve never really done a whole Christmas together before.”

“Never gave a shit about any of that.” Mickey’s neck and ears are burning hot and he can’t look over at Ian.

Ian is quiet for a lingering moment, scrubbing at a plate. Mickey tries to keep his heart rate in check, trusting that Ian knows enough about his childhood that he won’t push. 

“We can do our own thing, then, huh? No expectations?” 

Mickey let’s himself breathe again, a little wave of love for his husband rolling over his skin. “Don’t you all have a bunch of Gallagher bullshit that we’ll have to do? Seems like something you assholes would be all into.”

Ian snorts at him and shrugs. “Not really. Christmas was different every year. Some years we’d have some cash and it was pretty fun, some years Frank and Monica weren’t even around and it was just whatever we could scrounge. Couple years we didn’t even have electricity on Christmas day. I remember one year when I was like seven and Frank was in one of his sober phases and he made us all go to services at St. Monica’s for the entire month of December. Even volunteered me to be a shepherd in the nativity thing. Luckily he fell off the wagon before I had to actually do it.” 

Mickey smiles to himself at the idea of confused little Ian Gallagher frowning his way through rehearsals for a stupid-ass church play. 

“I got a little holiday bonus from work today. Thought we should try to make something out of it this year. Get a tree and maybe do stockings for everyone.”

Mickey’s never had any of these things. Christmas was always a big day for moving packages for Terry, the prevailing Milkovich wisdom being that the pigs would all be home gorging on ham with their families and not paying attention to trafficking across state lines. The only year he remembers anything different was the year his ma had taken off with him and Mandy in tow and they’d spent a couple of weeks in a shelter. They’d been given a bunch of nicely wrapped cheap-ass plastic toys that even as a six-year-old Mickey knew were from strangers and not his mother.

“Yeah, sure, I guess,” Mickey says, occupying his nervous hands by fiddling with the burnt out heating element he’s managed to remove. 

“Might call Clay, too,” Ian says, and from the shift in his tone, Mickey realizes that this is actually what Ian’s wanted to get to for the entire conversation. “If you think that would be okay.”

“Clay, huh. He just gonna be on his own?” Mickey considers. It’ll be Clay’s first Christmas since his divorce, first since he’d learned for sure that Ian is his kid, and he really seems like the sort of asshole who will care about that shit. Mickey thinks Ian might be onto something that they should call him.

Ian’s the one who can’t look up now. “Thought we could find out.”

Mickey puts down the pieces of completely fried toaster, pulls himself up out of his own fucking head, and walks over to Ian at the sink. He lets his fingers slide up Ian’s spine and find the soft skin at the back of Ian’s neck to rub a little, right where he knows Ian holds onto pounds of stress. 

“Yeah, man. Find out,” he says. “We can do some Christmas shit I guess”

Ian gives him one of his perfect little half-smiles and leans in for a peck against Mickey’s lips. Warmth rolls through Mickey to his core.

He steps away to the fridge for a beer. “Also, we better ask Santa for a new fucking toaster.”

*

Two days later, Mickey’s walking home from the L after a tedious day freezing his ass off at work. December has hit the city with miserable, ice-dagger wind, though no snow yet. Even three shirts, two layers of pants, a pullover, and Ian’s giant hoodie bundled on beneath his parka isn’t enough to keep Mickey warm for his full shift flagging out on the street. He’s chilled all the way through and the only thought in his head, besides wanting to murder every person in his life even partially responsible for him being in this shitty job, is getting home and into a warm shower. 

A block away from Wallace, the sidewalk is blocked by a gathering of people and Mickey considers whether or not he has enough feeling in his fists to actually land a punch to clear a path for himself. When he gets close, however, he sees that it’s a couple of enterprising kids who must have ripped off a Christmas tree lot. They’re selling the trees, wrapped up in netting, out of the back of a pickup for ten bucks each. It’s a fucking crime to pay for a tree when they grow for damn free all over the place, but Mickey shoves his way to the front through the neighbors, hauls a tree off the tailgate and throws the five he has in his pocket at the wide-eyed kid by the truck. 

“Hey, it’s ten bucks, man!” 

Mickey hefts the tree up onto his shoulder and flips the kid off. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, striding away. No one chases after him, and he feels better than he has all day.

*

Mickey’s shoulder is screaming by the time he makes it into the Gallagher living room. He’d had no fucking clue how heavy a cut tree could be. He drops the tree onto the floor and leaves it there as soon as he is inside. He’s warmed up a bit from the effort, but still cannot feel his feet. 

“Here’s a damn tree!” he shouts to whoever might be home as he takes the stairs two at a time to the bathroom, shedding layers of clothing as he goes. 

When he emerges twenty minutes later, warmed up by the shower and bundled into some clean new layers, Mickey trots downstairs to find Debbie and Liam struggling to remove the ties and netting from the tree while Franny looks on.

“Did you get this for us, Mickey?” Liam asks, grinning. 

Mickey hasn’t seen the kid looking so lively for weeks. He rubs his hand into Liam’s hair. “Yep. Merry fucking Christmas.”

“Is there a stand or something?” Debbie asks. She’s clipping the net open with scissors, one link at a time. 

Mickey frowns. “A stand?”

“So that the tree can, you know, stand up?”

Mickey didn’t have a clue that this Christmas shit had more to it. “I got the tree. I’m out.”

“Well, can you text Ian to pick one up?”

“You can’t fucking text him?” Mickey snipes, before he even thinks about it. He’s been trying not to immediately snap back at Ian’s siblings anymore, but old habits. 

Debbie gives him an exhausted sigh from where she’s crouched awkwardly over the tangled tree. “Please, Mickey.”

Mickey looks over at Franny, perched on the sofa, eyes wide and thrilled, gazing at the tree on the floor. How all of this is new to her, maybe the first Christmas she’ll remember. If he thinks hard, the first one he remembers is when he was four. He gets a brief wave of queasiness, like he has off and on for the last six months, still processing the end of his relationship with Yevgeny. Wonders what that kid’s Christmas traditions might be. He’ll never know now.

Mickey pulls out his phone. 

*

 **Mickey** _We need a Christmas tree stand_

 **Ian** _This seems to imply that we have a Christmas tree_

 **Mickey** _well spotted genius_

 **Ian** _You got a tree?_

 **Mickey** _The massive knot in my shoulder that I got from dragging the damn thing here says that yes I did_

 **Ian** _A real one?_

 **Mickey** _it ain’t plastic_

 **Ian** _Asshole_

 **Mickey** _What the fuck?_

 **Ian** _Making me wanna jump you when I still have to work for another hour_

 **Mickey** _Damn, yer easy Gallagher_

 **Ian** _Fuck_

 **Mickey** _Tree stand. Get one._

 **Ian** _Yes, husband_

*

Once Debbie and Liam free the tree from the netting and the branches spread out, Mickey has to admit to himself that it is a weirdly cool thing to have a big tree in the house. Smells real good. They leave it leaning in the corner by the windows.

Liam calls Fiona after that because Debbie vaguely remembers that somewhere in the house is a box of old Christmas ornaments that they’d dug up during one of the good years in the past. Fiona’s voice over speaker phone leads them on a hunt into the attic where Liam eventually unearths a dusty old box that says ‘Xmas’ on the side. 

Mickey’s never been in the Gallagher attic before. It reminds him of the days after Ian’s manic trips to the airport, there’s so much random shit up there. Probably a tree stand if they look hard enough. Probably two.

“You putting up a tree?” Fiona’s tinny voice echoes to all of them from Debbie’s phone as they grapple the box down the attic ladder. 

“Yeah, Mickey brought one home,” Debbie replies, eyes flicking up to Mickey’s with a little nod of approval. 

“That was sweet of Mickey. Send me pictures, okay?”

Mickey feels his face heat. Fucking Gallaghers. 

“We will Fiona,” Liam shouts. 

“Wish I could see it in person,” Fiona adds, and even Mickey can hear the heartache in her voice.

“We miss you,” Debbie says, real sincere.

Mickey grabs the xmas box from Liam and heads to the stairs so he doesn’t have to listen to any more of that. It makes his stomach ache. He needs Ian to get home.

*

Ian arrives after another hour with a metal tree stand and a couple of strings of colored lights. Mickey knows this because he hears him arrive and get pulled into the excited family chatter in the living room. He has settled into the kitchen with a beer and his phone, pretending he’s got all sorts of shit to do, but really just needing a break from the family togetherness. 

Mickey listens while it takes a few minutes for Ian to extricate himself from his siblings, getting them to point him in his direction. He strides back into the kitchen then; Mickey can feel him coming, bringing the cool scent of the icy outdoor air with him. God, Mickey loves him so hard.

“Hey, Mick,” Ian says, walking right over, leaning down, and planting a gentle kiss on Mickey’s lips.

“Softy,” Mickey replies.

“Says the guy who bought the family Christmas tree.”

“Pretty sure that tree is hot. And I definitely did not pay full price.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” Ian leans in with a wicked little grin and kisses him again.

“You gonna come out and help us set this thing up?” Ian asks, pulling out the chair right next to Mickey and settling in, one hand finding Mickey’s knee and holding on. 

“Nah. I’m good.”

Ian looks at him with his big eyes like he can see right through him. “You never did this shit before.” He just says it like a fact, no judgment. 

Mickey grabs his beer and takes a swig. “Don’t see the point.”

“You miss ‘em?” Ian asks. 

Mickey frowns, uncertain. “Who?”

“Your family.” 

Fuck Ian for being able to tell every fucking think about him.

Mickey thinks about Ian’s words though; _miss ‘em_ is not exactly true to what he’s been feeling, because shit, he’d be a fucking idiot to think for a minute that he’d be better off in the cold fear of his childhood home rather than the warm camaraderie of the Gallaghers. That’s not it at all. It’s just sadness, he realizes. Sadness that they didn’t get to have any of this family shit for so many years, as if they’d deserved it any less. Sadness that it’d taken Terry being down on attempted murder, no chance of parole, to even let him think he could have any of this shit. 

Mickey shakes himself and takes another pull off his beer. “Fuck. You get that stupid tree stand?” he asks Ian, even though he knows perfectly well that he did.

Ian lets him get away with the change of subject. “Wanna see how it works?” 

“Fuck. Fine.” 

He lets Ian pull him up. 

Ian drapes his arm over Mickey’s shoulder as they walk out to the living room, where it looks like Liam is in the midst of decorating Franny by wrapping her in tiny colored lights. “You really find a source for stolen evergreens?”

“Haven’t lost my touch entirely, Gallagher.” Mickey holds onto Ian’s hand.

*


	2. Ham

*

 **Clay** _You boys want to come out for a holiday meal? Making a honey baked ham. My schedule’s pretty open._

Mickey reads the text from Clay a few times. He shouldn’t give a shit, but there’s something about Clay’s offer that makes Mickey really fucking sad. Is the dude really gonna make himself a ham?

One of the carpenters, Luis, barges into the portable where Mickey is huddling over his phone, attempting to warm up on his break. 

“Hey, Milkovich,” he says, and Mickey nods a greeting in his direction. 

Mickey’s text alert pings. 

**Ian** _Thanks Clay. We’ll talk it over tonight and let you know._

Mickey shakes his head. He married this polite motherfucker. 

“Fucking freezing out there today, man,” Luis says, pulling up a folding chair and huffing down across from Mickey. 

“I know. Icicles dangling off my fucking balls,” Mickey replies, and Luis grunts a little laugh. 

“You moving over to that new project after new year’s?” 

Mickey nods. “Yeah. Can’t get enough of this shit. You too?”

Luis nods. “Sounds like a good gig, man. Should be another six months steady.”

Mickey thinks about the little stash of money that he and Ian have started to save again, about Ian’s bonus, and the Christmas tree sitting in the Gallagher living room. A little marble of worry tumbles through his guts. 

“Steady’s good,” Mickey replies as he tucks his phone into his pocket.

*

They’d used all of the old ornaments from the attic Christmas box to decorate the tree once Ian and Lip had fought it into the stupid tree stand. There were boxes of colored balls that looked like antiques, one that even still had the ancient price tag on it for 59 cents. Some of what they found looked homemade: a yarn god’s eye, shrinky dink ornaments with childish scribbles of color on them, a star folded out of paper. Bunch of stuff in one box all featured Mickey Mouse, which meant Mickey had spent a good portion of the evening deflecting moronic mouse jokes directed at him by Carl and Debbie (and Franny once, but he didn’t mind that so much). Ian had dug up an extension cord in the basement and draped the new lights among the branches. 

When it was finished the whole household had sat around and quietly stared at the tree for a while, until Mickey’s skin itched so bad he had to bolt up and have a cigarette on the front steps, watching his breath like fog in the cold night. 

Now, arriving home to the tree, lit up and fragrant, Mickey pauses to stare again. Fucking weird thing to do, bring a huge-ass tree inside and cover it with colorful shit. It’s nice though. Warm.

“Uncle Mouse!” Franny shouts from behind him and then almost knocks Mickey onto the sofa, grabbing his legs and hugging them hard. 

“Hey, kid,” Mickey says, craning around to see her little face pressed up against his side. Fuck, he’s gonna be a sucker for _Uncle Mouse_. Who the hell knows if any of his own fucked-up siblings will ever make him an uncle. “You like the tree?” 

Franny releases his legs from her little iron grip and says, “Uh-huh,” before dashing away back to the kitchen. 

Ian appears, dodging Franny as she barrels past him. Mickey continues to shed his layers of warm clothing as Ian approaches. He accepts an offered beer and a welcome home kiss and thinks for the thousandth time that he cannot believe he really gets to do this every fucking day. 

Ian nods towards the tree. “Really cheers the place up, huh?” 

“All jolly and shit,” Mickey says, untying his work boots to start the process of defrosting his toes.

“You stay any warmer today?” 

“Extra layer of socks helped for the first four hours. Shit out of luck after that.”

“Sorry, Mick,” Ian knocks his knee into Mickey’s leg where he’s sitting on the stairs. “Want me to help warm ‘em up?”

“If you're offering,” Mickey says. He’s tired and oddly out of sorts. Ian reaches out his hand and Mickey grabs on to be pulled up and over to the sofa. Mickey arranges himself at one end so that he can extend his feet onto Ian’s lap at the other. 

“I must love you or something if I’m willing to be near these feet after they’ve been in those boots all day,” Ian teases. He’s pulling off the double layer of wool from Mickey’s ice cube toes.

“Or something,” Mickey snorts, taking a swig of his beer.

They get quiet for a minute, Ian gently rubbing at Mickey’s feet with both hands. He’s so numb that it actually hurts for a minute as the blood makes its way back to the surface, and then all Mickey can feel is the gentle touch of Ian’s fingers on him. He sighs into it and leans back, arm folded behind his head. 

“You get that text from Clay?” Ian asks, eyes on Mickey’s toes.

“Yeah. Weren’t you gonna call him?”

“He beat me to it.”

Mickey looks up at Ian, who appears to be thinking too hard. “I’ll do whatever, man,” he says. He imagines Clay again, sitting by himself with a lonely ham. “You know I’m okay with the guy.”

Ian breathes out and goes back to running his thumb along Mickey’s arch. Mickey wants to melt into the cushions. 

“Okay. I’ll call him after this.” 

“No fucking rush,” Mickey says, wiggling his toes and closing his eyes. 

*

Ian disappears with his phone as soon as Carl comes through the door. He’s toting a family-sized bucket of chicken with potatoes and coleslaw. The smell is like a magnet for the rest of the Gallaghers, who suddenly appear from out of the woodwork. Mickey follows into the kitchen and serves himself a plate of food while the siblings jabber about their days. Rather than join in, he heads back into the living room to eat. Seems like a waste to let the tree sit there alone, glowing to itself.

Carl, Liam, Debbie, and Franny follow his lead, and in a few minutes everyone has migrated with their dinner plates into the room. Debbie settles Franny on a pillow at the coffee table and then plops down next to Mickey on the sofa. 

“This room smells like feet,” she observes with a sniff. 

Mickey hastily kicks his discarded socks under the sofa and pulls his bare feet up to tuck them under his ass. “Probably the tree,” he says. 

Debbie sniffs again and looks at him suspiciously. Mickey bites into his chicken and flips her off.

Ian returns at that moment, thank fuck, his footsteps heavy and loud into the room. “Well, family,” he says in his pissy announcement voice, “we’re having a party on Christmas Eve.”

Liam looks up, his eyes bright. “We are?” 

Mickey eyes Ian’s tensed jaw and clenched fist. “We are?” he says, worried.

“With who?” Carl speaks through a huge mouthful of chicken.

“Uncle Clayton.” Ian’s cheeks are flushed and he’s avoiding looking at Mickey for some reason. “He’s bringing a ham. Jacob might come.”

“Cool. Can we invite Kev and V and the girls?” Debbie asks. 

Ian nods. “Yeah, of course. Sandy. Whoever.” He swallows hard. “This okay with everyone?”

There’s a general mutter of approval from the room. “Yeah! This is gonna be awesome,” Liam says, jumping to his feet. “Can we make a fruitcake?”

Ian’s expression softens. He looks at Liam fondly. “A fruitcake?”

Liam shrugs. “They always have Christmas fruitcakes in books.”

Ian grins. “Yeah, buddy, we can try to do that.” 

But Mickey notices the tension in Ian’s jaw doesn’t change. 

*

Later, in bed, Mickey’s mind can stop spinning. Fuck. He scoots over and tucks himself against Ian’s warm body. Ian’s arm loops around his shoulders and pulls him close. They breathe together for a few moments.

“You know you call him Uncle Clayton when you talk with your family?” 

Mickey has no idea why that’s what comes out of his mouth, but he feels better when he says it.

Ian’s body tenses for a moment next to him. “I do?”

Mickey lets his hand stroke gently against Ian’s chest and he nods into his shoulder. 

Ian takes a deep breath. “Don’t know what else to call him, I guess.”

“What happened when you talked to him?” Mickey asks. He really can’t tell; Ian’s been acting so fucking cagey.

Ian is quiet for a minute- putting his thoughts together, Mickey knows. “I told him we always have a family party here on Christmas Eve. Like it was some tradition. Couldn’t stop once I started making shit up. I don’t even know why, but I guess…” Ian goes quiet again, so Mickey just keeps his hand still against Ian’s heart. 

“I guess I don’t want him to judge us,” he says at last. “Worried maybe he will.”

Mickey thinks about the Clay he’s met, the one who knows how to roll a perfect joint and who reminisces about the southside like it’s his lost kingdom. “Maybe,” Mickey says, “Maybe not.” 

They’ve stayed in touch with Clay through the summer and fall, gone out to his place a few times, eaten his food, worked some shit out between them. But this will be his first time coming to the house, his first time seeing how they live. Mickey’s skin hums with how easily his mind thinks about this problem as _theirs_ , this house as _ours_. He burrows in even closer to Ian’s side, tangles their legs together. 

“Nothing stopping us from starting a tradition, right? Clay won't fucking care. Christmas Eve blowout. We got this.” 

Ian pulls him closer and leans his head down against Mickey’s. “I know. It’ll be fine. Clay’s a good guy. I totally want him here...” 

Ian pauses. Mickey waits for the rest of Ian’s unfinished thought, his skin tingling.

“But?” he prompts, nudging Ian with his knee.

Ian gets real still and Mickey’s heart speeds up a little. 

“I don’t know. This holiday stuff’s just a lot. Keep thinking about Frank, and about when we were kids, and how Clay’s his brother.” Ian’s voice slows down after getting all that out. Mickey’s hand starts again into a steady rub against Ian’s chest. “Just scared I guess. To really let this all happen.”

Mickey doesn’t know how to respond to any of that; Ian saying it makes him realize how much he’s been in his own head about family history ever since the idea of Christmas was even mentioned. Why he has this uncomfortable hum of energy just under his skin.

He turns just enough to press his lips against Ian’s, firm and wanting, like he means it. They’re in this together. He hopes that’s as good as the comforting words he doesn’t know how to say. 

*


	3. Fruitcake

*

The week before Christmas doesn’t actually start too badly.

They both have a day off, so Mickey’s a little worried when he wakes up to an empty bed. Early-to-rise Ian always gives him pause. But a quick search turns Ian up in the kitchen, stirring something in the big mixing bowl. He looks over and smiles as Mickey comes in and Mickey’s whole body feels it. 

“Morning.” Ian continues to stir.

Mickey gets a whiff of the air as he steps closer. “Jesus. Why does it smell like The Alibi in here?”

“Looked up a fruitcake recipe for Liam. There’s so fucking much booze in this thing. It’s like Frank manifested as a dessert.”

Mickey snorts and leans in to claim a good morning kiss. “You been up for a while?”

“Not too long. Coffee’s hot,” Ian says, putting the bowl down and going back to a cutting board covered in dried fruit. 

“We gonna be arrested for getting a minor fucking wasted if Liam eats this thing?” Mickey asks, peering into the bowl of boozy raisins, alcoholic fumes practically visible above it. “Cause I have much more lucrative ideas for how we could get arrested if that’s what you want.”

Ian tries to kick him from where he’s chopping dates, but Mickey dodges in time. “The alcohol cooks off when it bakes, you ass. It’s late to get this started. To really do it right, turns out we need like three or four weeks. I’m getting this fruit soaking in the rum now so that me and Liam can actually make the cake tomorrow. After it’s baked you’re supposed to add even more booze.”

Mickey pours himself a mug of coffee and leans back against the counter to bask in the sight of his beautiful, ridiculous husband making a fruitcake. 

“Guess I might try a piece then,” Mickey says, sipping his coffee. Ian entrusts him with him a perfect half-smile that makes Mickey’s blood sing.

The week starts just fine.

*

The next day, though, it’s their crew’s last day on the job site after almost eight months. The building is mostly complete so traffic control’s ending; even the last few days of work had mostly been helping with clean up and breaking down chain link fencing to open the place up again. No jobs through the new year, but Arnold has promised them work on a new project that breaks ground in January. At the end of the shift, he calls them into his portable office.

“You three assholes piss plenty of people off, but your safety record’s close to perfect.” 

Dashawn holds up his hand to Mickey, and Mickey rolls his eyes but high-fives him anyway, the doof.

“Where’s this new job?” Stella asks. All three of them, Dashawn, Stella, and Mickey, are Larry’s parolees. Mickey would never tell anyone but Ian, but he’s gotten attached to these assholes. It’ll be sweet to work together again. 

Arnold has a big map of the city rolled out on his desk. “Another full city block is coming down for a couple of condo complexes. Demo starts right after the new year. Block between, let’s see, west 45th and west 46th off of Halsted.”

Everything freezes for a moment. Mickey’s heart drops into his guts like a stone. “What’d you say?”

“Near Halsted and 46th, east of the L?” Arnold repeats, and the information isn’t any different.

“You know the place, Mickey?” Dashawn asks. 

Knows it like the pattern of veins on the back of his hand, like a part of himself. “That’s my block. Where I grew up. That can’t be right, man.”

Arnold looks back down at the map and then up at Mickey, sympathy in his eyes. “Sorry, pal. You been over there recently?”

Mickey hasn’t been by the house for months. He’d assumed someone was there, Joey maybe, or Ig, laying low. He’s even thought Sandy was staying there sometimes still, but he’d never asked. Fuck. Mickey looks down at the map, at the big red rectangle obliterating his block, the Milkovich house a tiny, insignificant rectangle.

“How could this happen?” Mickey says, ready to deck someone. Still, another part of his brain starts to wonder who was keeping the place up. Terry and both of his uncles are out of the picture after what went down, his brothers are who the fuck knows where, Mandy’s not coming back. The place could have been empty for months and Mickey would have had no fucking clue. 

Arnold shakes his head. “Don’t know, man. You can probably get some records from the city. You think someone screwed up?”

“Fuck,” he mutters, his chest aching. He blinks hard, because fuck his stupid-ass eyes. “I don’t know. Shit. I gotta take off,” he says. 

“You still on for the job, Milkovich?” Arnold calls after him as he heads for the door.

Mickey swallows and nods. “Yeah, man. I’ll be there.”

Stella brushes a comforting hand along his arm as he bolts past her, grappling in his pocket for his cigarettes, and somehow that makes it all feel even worse. 

*

He goes straight to Ian, doesn’t want to have fuck all to do with any other assholes right now. Ian’s still at work, so Mickey lingers outside the clinic, leaned up against the empty bike racks, stamping his feet to keep warm, smoking, and trying to keep his fingers steady. It’s a women’s health clinic, so Mickey gets his fair share of worried glances from patients coming and going. He tries not to meet anyone’s eye.

Mickey’s mind won’t get quiet, trying to make sense of what might have happened. But he also keeps coming back to a memory of Jacob Gallagher, lost and alone last spring, his family home sold out from under him. How angry he had been, and how much Mickey had understood.

Eventually, the clock on Mickey’s phone shows five o’clock. A couple more women exit, and then Ian’s tall frame appears, silhouetted in the light of the glass doorway, locking up. Mickey stands and walks forward, and he can see the moment Ian notices him emerging from the dark.

Expression a jumble of concern, Ian turns the lock again and pushes the door open. “Mick, is that you?” 

“You got a lot more to do?” Mickey asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

“What’s wrong?” 

Mickey loves and hates how easy it is for Ian to see right through him. 

“Can’t I just fucking come to meet you after work?”

“You look upset.”

“Finish your shit, Ian.”

Ian's face looks pinched and worried, but to Mickey’s relief, he doesn’t push. “You wanna wait in here?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Mickey says, holding up his cigarette by way of excuse. If he goes inside, the doting gaggle of women Ian works with will all want to come out and visit, and he doesn’t have much tolerance for that on his best day. 

“I’ll hurry.” Ian closes and locks the door again. Mickey sees him disappear into the back and then emerge again in less than a minute with his coat, scarf, and bag, waving over his shoulder at someone Mickey can’t see. 

Ian trots over to Mickey and leans in for a quick kiss. “Told Susan I needed to get home. She’s gonna do the shutdown for me.”

“They’re tearing down the house,” Mickey blurts, his chest so full of this insanity that he can’t even figure out how to say hello. 

Ian startles back. “What house?”

“My fucking house, Ian. _My house._ Scheduled for demo in January. I just…” Mickey can’t get any more words out. 

“Oh my god, Mick,” Ian pulls Mickey gently in against his chest, still warm from the indoors, arms tight around Mickey’s back. Mickey hates how good it feels to be held, when what he should be wanting to do is fuck shit up, stir up his brothers, get some guns and _do something_. But Ian’s hands are rubbing circles on his shoulder blades and he smells like pine.

“Let’s get home, huh? Figure this out?”

“Nothing to fucking figure out,” Mickey says, and realizes that’s what feels so shitty. There isn’t anything to do. “Just is.”

Ian’s hand is warm on Mickey’s cheek as he leans in for another kiss. “I don’t know about that,” he says. Mickey loves the soft idiot so much, because Ian really believes there might be something they can do.

Ian keeps one arm firmly around Mickey’s shoulders as they walk towards home.

*

Lip comes over to help them search for documents; they find a public presentation from October about the redevelopment project. Bank repossession, it says, then a sale by the bank to the developer. Mickey stares at the screen, at the cold, legal demise of his childhood home, and he can’t really feel anything. Just a deep ache in his chest and a strong desire to fire a gun. 

Without saying anything, Mickey stands up from the kitchen table where Lip and Ian are debating, and heads up to the bathroom. The downstairs still smells like a fruitcake distillery. The warm lights of the tree belong to someone else. He’s cold down to his bones. 

Mickey turns the shower up as hot as he can manage and stands in the flow, trying not to think too hard. After a few minutes, there’s a soft knock on the door. 

“I’m coming in, Mick.” Ian’s voice.

“Do what you fucking need to,” Mickey mutters. 

Ian edges in, closing the door behind him. The little room is steamy and thick. Mickey can hardly see him as he settles in on the toilet seat. 

“When were you last over there?” Ian asks. 

Mickey shakes his head. He can’t even remember. Just some stupid stop by, probably to see Sandy. Nothing special. 

“Think any of our stuff is still there? I never cleaned all my shit out,” Ian says. 

Mickey pictures their old room, when they lived there together so many years ago now. How it was the first time their shit had really mingled together, in the drawers, on the floor, in their lives. Fuck.

“How should I know?” Mickey says.

“Wanna go check?” Ian asks. 

Mickey pulls back the shower curtain enough to peer out at Ian. “What do you mean?”

“Go for one last visit.”

“The house is sold, Ian.”

“So?”

“What, you wanna break in?”

Ian shrugs. “It’s an abandoned block of houses now, right? No one’s gonna give a shit.”

“You’d do that with me?” Mickey asks, confused by this Ian, who’s been nervous about fucking jaywalking since he’s been on parole but is now offering to housebreak with him. But Jesus, he wants to go back one last time. Needs to.

Ian grins. “Get dressed. I’ll grab some bags in case we find anything we wanna keep.”

“Shit.” Mickey turns off the water and grabs a towel.

*

They tread the familiar route in the early evening darkness, one they’ve both walked thousands of times, so familiar it seems like their feet should have left a groove in the sidewalk, connecting them through the years. Gallagher and Milkovich.

Mickey’s never really noticed how many of their neighbors hang up Christmas lights on their eaves, or have a tree glowing in the window. He looks around as they walk and wonders why he’d never paid attention before. Maybe he’s just never let himself look.

When they take the turn towards home, Ian stops short. Mickey’s almost afraid to look, but Ian’s there, right next to him, so he does. 

The entire block has already been fenced, the empty houses imprisoned behind yards of chain link. 

“Holy shit,” Ian says. “I guess I didn’t really believe it.”

The lump in Mickey’s throat is too massive to speak around, so he just starts walking down the block, hard, until he’s staring through the fence at his front door. 

“Still wanna do this?” Ian asks, his voice low. 

Mickey blinks. Fuck. He can be a baby about this, or he can haul his ass over the fence. The old house sits there in the dark, silent and squat, like a tired-ass auntie who’s given up trying. Mickey doesn’t owe the place anything. 

He pulls off the empty backpack Ian has given him and tosses it over the fence. “Been a while since we scaled a fence together, Gallagher.”

“You need a boost?”

“Oh, fuck right off.” 

They both snicker, and Mickey’s chest warms. His damn husband. 

When they pull themselves over, the fence rattles like mad, but there’s no one nearby to notice. Mickey hustles up the stairs to the front porch, just like every other day of his life. The door is bolted with a comically huge padlock and the front door is papered with notices. Fuck, how long has he been avoiding this place? 

The lock on the door is meaningless; the Milkovich house has always been like swiss cheese. Mickey has no problem jiggling open the side window in the kitchen, the one that never really latched. They slide through. 

The place is pretty cleared out, most of the furniture gone, gun cabinet empty. Without talking, they start poking around. Ian opens kitchen cupboards. Mickey wanders around the living room. There’s trash all over the floor, one of the old couches still sitting there at a wonky angle. The bedrooms aren’t any better, though a few posters are still on the walls. 

“Think your brothers took everything?”

“Nah. Neighbors probably cleaned the place out when they saw no one was coming back.” Hell, Mickey would have done the same. Still, his stomach hurts.

Mickey picks up a few random things from the mess: a t-shirt of his that he thought he’d thrown out years ago, a framed picture of his Ma from Mandy’s old closet. Ian’s banging around in the kitchen. 

“Look what I found, Mick! There was still some shit in one cupboard!” Ian appears in the at his side holding a baking pan, one of the fancy kind that look like a ring. “For the fruitcake.”

“You’re a fruitcake,” Mickey snaps, trying not to think too hard as he surveys the scattered remains of his past. The bed frame is still there, in the room that they'd shared, but not the mattress. Mickey kicks at it and a pile of old magazines slumps from the side table and onto the floor. 

Mickey grabs the magazine off the top of the pile. “You’ve gotta be fucking joking,” he says, as his old photo of Ian, tattered and ripped and glued, slides into his hand. 

Ian peers over his shoulder. “What’s that?”

“Wank photo,” Mickey says, holding it up in the weak light seeping through the windows for Ian to see. Fuck, he’d lived a lifetime since the last time he’d needed this thing.

“That’s a picture of my face, Mick.”

“I like what I like, Gallagher.”

Ian snorts and nudges him in the shoulder. Mickey pockets the old picture. 

*

Out in the living room, amongst the trash, Mickey finds one of Yevgeny’s baby chairs, tossed into the corner. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to feel anything, finding it again. He’s not sure if he can feel _anything_ right now. 

“Aww, remember him sitting in that thing,” Ian says fondly. “How his little feet would just dangle there. And his tiny toes.”

Mickey stares at the stained plastic, the broken safety buckle. “Yeah, I also remember five Russian hookers sitting across the room with their tits out. So.”

Ian nods. “I remember that too.”

Mickey tosses the little chair back into the corner. It lands with a thud.

“Wonder if all that is gonna affect Yev, you know. When he hits puberty, he’ll suddenly be so into fucking tits or something,” Mickey says, to say something.

“Maybe,” Ian says thoughtfully. “Or maybe he won’t be into tits at all.”

Mickey shakes his head, poking at more of the trash with his boots. “Nah, that kid’s straight.”

“Oh, you can tell, can you?” Ian teases.

“Well,” Mickey raises his eyebrows, “he’s not mine, remember.”

Ian snorts. “Pretty sure that’s not exactly how that works, Mick.” 

They both laugh a little, but the emptiness of the place, the cold and dark, pull the warmth out of the sound and it gets quiet again, like a sigh, quieter than Mickey has ever heard the world from this room. 

“Fuck,” he says to the darkness. So many damn ghosts.

Svetlana, her cold gaze and the heavy weight of hiding; his brothers, and never really knowing his place; the endless parade of thugs and asshole uncles, needing to prove that being small and young didn’t make him weak; his Ma, loud and hard, yelling at him from the kitchen, her eye blackened; Terry, filling up the whole house with his anger; Mandy, crying and huddled on the floor of her closet; Ian, trembling and bleeding, eyes so wide; Ian, unable to get out of bed one day.

Mickey feels himself shaking. Ian, the real Ian, presses up against his back, arms around his chest, nuzzling into his neck. They stand like that for a while, and Mickey’s breathing finally slows. 

Ian gently releases Mickey and starts grappling around in his backpack for something. “You think they’ve turned the electricity off?”

Mickey frowns. “You gonna turn on the lights? I thought you didn’t want to go back to prison.” He can see Ian groping along the wall for something.

“Here we go,” Ian says. “Let’s see.”

The room is suddenly softly illuminated by a string of colored Christmas lights. The fucking soft-touch must have brought them along. Ian lets them trail out from his fingers and across the floor. 

“What do you think?” Ian asks, approaching. 

It’s just enough light to see the place properly, to know that the ghosts are all in Mickey’s head, all in the past. He lets his gaze travel along every wall for the last time. “I fucking hate this house,” he mutters. 

Ian crowds against him, his gloved hands cradling Mickey’s cheeks. “Thought we should send the old place out in style,” he says, and presses his lips against Mickey’s in a soft kiss that Mickey feels in his toes.

“It’s below freezing, Romeo,” Mickey says, but it’s not really a protest. The sappy idiot had brought along fucking lights. 

Ian responds by deepening their kiss, his arms pulling Mickey in against him. “Last chance, Mick. Here. With no one to bother us. Just you and me.” Ian tugs off his gloves and his warm hands find their way under the layers of Mickey’s outerwear to tickle at the skin of Mickey’s belly and hips, pop open the top button of Mickey’s jeans.

Jesus. 

The last time they’d tried to fuck in this room, everything in Mickey’s life had gone to shit. He knows it’s just a house, just a bunch of rotting beams and rusted nails that can’t even keep the bitter wind from seeping in, but fuck if he hasn’t wanted to knock apart these walls for all of the shit they saw and stayed silent about. 

Ian’s lips are so soft against his, his fingers gently seeking. There’s nothing to hide from anymore. The glow of the little string of lights reflects in the front windows and Mickey can’t even see how filthy they are. His lips ease open, bringing Ian in closer, because yes, he wants this, needs this, his hand sliding up to dig into Ian’s hair.

They drift together over to towards the tattered old sofa, kissing and softly laughing at the trials of trying to have sex in the cold, and there’s no rush, but Mickey also wants Ian on him, in him, yelling his fucking name, a final fuck you to the ghosts.

He’s ready to let go.

*

Walking back to Wallace Street, arms draped around each other, backpacks clanging with recovered memories, Mickey almost feels drunk he’s so fucking in love.

“Wanna go with me to watch the place turn to rubble when it’s time?” Mickey asks. 

“Yeah, Mick. Of course I will.”

Mickey plants a sloppy kiss on Ian’s cheek, high on the glowing lights of their neighbors’ decorations. “We should sing Christmas songs or some shit. Jingle Bells.”

Ian grins and hugs Mickey’s head with his whole arm. He’s so damn beautiful. 

Neither of them really know any of the words. They try anyway.

*

Later, fully defrosted in the toasty Gallagher kitchen, Mickey reclines at the table with a bottle of some weird-ass winter ale that Tami's brought over, watching Ian and Liam assemble the fruitcake. They’d washed the recovered cake pan and have started measuring out the flour and shit. Liam’s beaming. It’s fucking adorable. Mickey can’t stop staring at Ian, at the life he gets to have.

There’s music and laughter coming from the living room where the other Gallaghers are gathered, along with a few of Debbie’s friends. When he leans back in his chair, Mickey can see the tree, _their_ tree, glowing in the front window.

Mickey’s phone buzzes with a text alert.

 **Clay** _Mickey, check out what just opened two doors down from my place!_

Attached is a picture of a small storefront that, based on the green leaf logo, appears to be a brand new pot shop. 

Mickey’s not sure why, but he feels his eyes fill with tears as he sputters a laugh at Clay’s stupid fucking text. That the guy would even think of him at all.

“What was that?” Ian asks from where he’s supervising Liam’s stirring.

Mickey shakes his head. It’s almost too much. 

“Guess Clay’s getting us all stoned for Christmas,” he says. 

“Great. Stoned and drunk on fruitcake. Sounds like a Gallagher party,” Ian replies, his little half-smile bright and curious.

“Yep,” Mickey says, “sounds just the fuck like us.”

*


	4. Stockings

*

Christmas Eve is the coldest day yet, windchill into the single digits. Mickey’s restless all morning, can’t convince his legs or fingers to stay still. 

“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Ian finally says, trapping Mickey’s hands to still them when he’s been drumming a beat against the kitchen table for a few minutes. “Go work out or something. Take a twenty and go get some more shit for the stockings. Fucking fold the laundry. Something. Shit.”

Mickey flips him off and hauls himself off the chair. Ian’s being an asshole, but he’s right. However, Ian doesn’t have to know that. 

They have a grocery bag full of little crap ready to fill stockings with, tucked in next to the side of their bed. Most of it is swag Ian was able to bring home from his job; turns out patients bring a lot of treats into their clinic as holiday thank yous. Fancy fucking granola, chocolate pretzels, little caramels, coffee gift cards. Ian’s been keeping his share to regift into stockings. Mickey picked up some gum during his most recent grocery trip, and a big ol’ chocolate Santa for Franny. Carl had surprised everyone a few days ago by bringing home a multi-pack of plain red felt stockings from the dollar store. Debbie and Franny had decorated the stockings with whatever art supplies they had, mostly sparkles and felt markers.

So, stockings. Mickey grabs a twenty from the coffee tin, bundles himself up, and heads out. 

He plans to go to the Walgreens, about a mile away, but his feet pound their way to the Alibi instead. Kev nods him in the door. The place is empty.

“Mickey. Didn’t think I’d see you til the party,” Kev says in greeting. 

“I guess it’s your lucky fucking day then,” Mickey snaps, settling onto a stool. 

Kev gives him a look and pulls him a beer. “Something crawl up your ass?”

Mickey shakes his head, bites at his lip, and takes a swig of his beer. What the fuck is his problem? Kev waits a moment, then returns to cutting up some limes, his back to Mickey. 

“You into this Christmas shit?” Mickey asks after a minute nursing the beer he doesn’t even want.

Kev doesn’t turn around. “Yeah, I didn’t really get it until we had the girls. Way I grew up, I kind of missed the point, you know. But now I’m so fucking into it, man. Just got myself a Santa outfit, with the beard and everything. We decorated like, four dozen cookies to bring over to your place tonight.” Kev glances at him over his shoulder. “You grinching out?”

“Don’t know,” Mickey says. “Never really been a Milkovich thing.”

“No shit,” Kev says. “Your pop once threw a full-on fit outside, waving a gun around because the bar was closed. Turned out he’d forgotten it was Christmas.”

Mickey’s chest hurts. He can’t stop his leg from vibrating. 

“Fuck. I don’t have time for this shit,” he says, shoving his half-finished beer back towards Kev. “Trying to get a few more things for the stockings. You got any of those mini bottles of booze? Those could go in a stocking, right?” 

“For grown-ups, right?” 

Mickey stares at him. “Yes, for grown-ups.”

“In that case, yeah, man. I got a few of those.” Kev leans down and pulls a little handful of bottles from under the bar. “On me. Ho ho ho.”

Mickey takes a deep breath. None of this is Kevin Ball’s fault; the guy’s like a human puppy.

“Yeah. Ho,” Mickey says as he heads out the door.

*

Back out on the sidewalk, Mickey pulls out his phone. He stares at it for a while, his chest aching. Then he thumbs open his texts.

 **Mickey** _Happy fucking christmas, shithead_

He hits send before he thinks about it too hard. 

*

Mickey walks hard and fast, and his head clears a bit by the time he gets to the store. He checks his phone, but there’s no response to his text. The only messages are from Ian, and Mickey’s cheeks flush as he reads them. 

**Ian** _Sorry I was pissy_

 **Ian** _Come home when you can_

 **Ian** _Love you_

Mickey’s fingers are icy, but he manages to tap out a reply.

 **Mickey** _Getting stocking shit. Back soon._

He rereads Ian’s texts, and then adds: 

**Mickey** _Firecrotch_

Mickey heads through the glass doors of the store feeling calmer than he has all morning.

*

Debbie, Sandy, and Tami had announced a few days previous that they would be in charge of making what Debbie insists on calling the “signature cocktail” for the Christmas Eve party, which Mickey is planning on avoiding like the plague. When he gets home, the three of them are making a mess of the kitchen, yelling at each other and laughing about simple syrup and infused vodka. He finds Ian hiding out in the living room with Liam, peeling a bowl of potatoes, a Bond movie on. 

“Is this what Christmas Eve is supposed to be like?” Mickey asks, leaning down to kiss Ian hello. 

Ian’s hand tangles into Mickey’s hair and he makes the kiss linger and deepen. Mickey’s pulse picks up.

“Hell if I know,” Ian says when he lets Mickey up for air. “Getting the mashed potatoes started. Liam, you okay to take over for a bit?” He hands the peeler to Liam, who grabs a potato from the bowl without looking away from the screen. “C’mon,” he says to Mickey. 

Mickey’s still standing there in his knit cap, coat, and boots, holding his bag of loot from the drug store. “Where’re we going?”

Ian heads for the stairs. “Just c’mon.”

“He wants some time alone with you before all the people get here,” Liam explains, still not looking away from the movie. “You should go with him.”

Mickey stares at Liam for a moment, and then at Ian who is stopped halfway up the stairs, biting his lip. 

Oh. Mickey heads for the stairs.

*

In their room, Ian is all over him. Mickey can’t even put the bag down before Ian’s mouth is on his, big hands pulling off his coat, his scarf, his gloves. 

“Whoa, stallion,” Mickey says, trying to slow things down for a minute before candy canes and tiny bottles of booze get strewn all over the floor. He can’t keep up with whatever championship level of horny Ian’s worked himself to. “Not really complaining here, but let me get my boots off.” 

“Hurry up,” Ian says into the skin of Mickey’s throat. As Mickey fumbles to unlace his boots with a husband all over him, he can feel how tense Ian’s body is, realizes that he’s wound up tight, just as fucking edgy as Mickey is about all this shit.

“Chill, man,” Mickey says, pulling his sweater and shirt over his head as Ian tugs him over to the bed. “We got plenty of time to bang one out and still get the potatoes done.”

“There’s sweet potatoes, too,” Ian murmurs as he tugs off his own shirt. 

“Didn’t know root veggies got you so worked up,” Mickey says, getting his fingers under the waistband of Ian’s sweats, ready to drag them down. 

Ian lunges in for another deep kiss. “Need you so fucking bad, Mick.” 

“It’s not even noon, Ian.”

“So?”

Mickey should be worried, he knows, that this whole week has been a minefield of triggers for Ian to navigate, and initiating sex out of nowhere in the middle of the day might mean something he should pay attention to. But shit, it’s Christmas Eve, and he also thinks some athletic pounding is just what they both need to calm the fuck down. 

“So…,” he catches Ian’s face with both of his hands and looks him in the eye, “...it’s all good. We can probably go at least twice before any guests show up.”

Ian makes a little growly sound in his throat that Mickey can’t remember ever hearing before, then dives down to start sucking the best sort of pathway down Mickey’s chest. “I like it when you call me that.”

Mickey pauses what his hands are doing to think about what he’s said over the last few minutes. “What, _Ian_?”

“Uh-uh. Not that,” he murmurs against Mickey’s ribs. 

“Asshole?” 

“No.”

“Santa?”

“You’ve never called me that.”

Mickey can’t think of anything else to guess, and Ian’s grinding against him in a way that really doesn’t promote blood flow to the brain, so Mickey gives up and lets the Christmas spirit take the fuck over for now.

*

When they come down the stairs together a while later, Liam is still watching the movie, a bowl full of peeled potatoes sitting next to him, and a growing pile of sliced carrots on a cutting board on the coffee table.

“Feel better?” Liam asks over his shoulder, a little smirk on his face.

“None of your fucking business, Gordon Ramsey,” Mickey says, hoping his damn giddiness isn’t as obvious as it feels. 

Ian gives Liam’s head a gentle shove.

Liam raises his eyebrows. “Those aren’t the clothes you were wearing before.”

Mickey gives up hiding his grin. “Stop noticing shit and get those potatoes to the kitchen, kid.

*

Clay and Jacob arrive before anyone else. Most of the household is upstairs getting changed or having a last minute nap, if they are five. Mickey’s finishing mashing the potatoes and getting casually felt up by Ian at every opportunity, the slut. When the knock comes at the door, Ian gives Mickey a look. Ian’s definitely less anxious, but still strained.

“Fuck, okay. I’ll get it.”

Clay is holding a roasting pan with a massive ham tented under foil. He looks like a character in one of Debbie’s stupid Hallmark Christmas movies: red plaid scarf, wool coat, Santa hat, like a wealthy, time-traveling Ian just returned to report back from the future. He’s staring into the house like it might jump him.

Mickey had forgotten for a moment that coming to this house might be just as full of hard memories for Clay as good ones. 

Jacob lurks behind his dad, an awkward shadow, holding a bag of something Mickey suddenly panics might be gifts. Fuck. They all stand at the threshold for a few beats longer than seems necessary.

“You two vampires or what?” Mickey says. “Need an invite to come in?” 

Clay’s face gets that same expression that Ian’s gets when he’s flustered, a sort of deer-in-headlights charm. “Thanks Mickey. Sorry. It’s a trip to be here.”

As soon as they get into the living room, before anyone even sheds a layer, Clay’s gaze fixes on the Christmas tree, his eyes huge. 

“I know those ornaments,” he says. “Wow, I think I made some of those.”

Mickey takes the heavy roasting pan from Clay before he drops it. “That’s wild, man,” he says. 

“Which ones?” Ian asks from where he’s standing, arms crossed across his chest, in the doorway to the kitchen. 

“Those shrinky-dinks for sure. We each made those for all the aunties one year.” Clay unwinds his scarf. Ian walks over to the tree to look more closely at the ornaments Clay is staring at, leaning in next to him.

“They’re cute.”

Clay rests a hand on Ian’s shoulder for a moment. “Thanks for inviting us,” he says. 

“Glad you could come,” Ian says back. 

Mickey’s chest hurts. He takes the ham into the kitchen. “If any of you want a beer before some fruity cocktail gets foisted on you, let me know now,” Mickey calls, hoping to shake off the buzz in his skin. “Debbie’ll be down any minute.”

“I’ll have a beer, please,” Jacob says, definitely too quickly. When he brings out the beer, Jacob’s taken off his coat to reveal a t-shirt over a long-sleeve crew that says _Buy one proton and one electron and get a neutron free of charge_. 

Fucking Gallaghers.

*

There’s lots of introductions and handshakes as the rest of the Gallaghers emerge from around the house. Mickey hangs out in the kitchen, nursing a beer, leaving the rest of them to it. He might hate his asshole uncles, but at least he’s always fucking _known_ them. 

Lip and Tami come in the back door with a casserole dish and their rugrat in tow. Freddy’s just the age now that Yev was when everything started to go to shit with Ian. Seeing his little blond head gives Mickey’s heart a knock that he’s still not sure is relief or regret.

“They in there?” Lip asks, bouncing Fred on his hip. 

Mickey nods. 

“Weird?” he asks under his breath.

Mickey shrugs. “This is all fucking weird. Christmas is fucking weird. What’s in the dish?”

“Brussel sprouts?” Lip replies doubtfully, as if he’s not really sure. 

In the other room, Mickey can hear that Kev and V have arrived with the girls, that Carl’s home from work. 

Christmas Eve.

*

Mickey starts to get into it about an hour in, when he’s had a couple of beers, eaten a bunch of chips, and settled into shooting the shit with Kev, Lip, and Jacob. Kev’s got on the coat from his Santa outfit, and is sucking down fruity cocktails and telling disgusting stories about the regulars at the Alibi. Mickey’s pretty sure he and Lip are both as entertained by Kev’s tall tales as they are by Jacob’s increasingly suspicious reactions. 

“There was that dude, what was his name? Who kept trying to rub one out under the bar like no one would notice? Remember that asshole?” 

“Was his name Frank?” Lip asks with a smirk.

Kev chucks him in the arm and laughs. “Good one, man.”

“How many times a day do you kick someone out for fucking in the bathroom?" Lip asks. 

“Kick ‘em out?” Kevin frowns. “Nah. Only if they leave a mess.”

Mickey glances over at Jacob. The kid’s cheeks are flaming red, but he’s leaning in like he wants to hear more. Little perv.

“Let’s not forget when Tatiana tried to charge the holy father forty bucks for a hummer at my kids’ christening,” Mickey says before he’s able to stop himself, and the _my kid_ slides off his tongue and lands with a thud into his guts. 

Jacob says, “You are all so full of it,” and Kev tries to get Jacob talking about his sex life in college, but Mickey hardly hears it. His body really needs to fucking move.

He holds up his empty as an excuse and stands, searching out Ian across the room where he’s talking with Clay, Debbie, and V near the tree. Their eyes meet and Ian must see something in his expression because he gives him the slightest of head nods, _come over here_. Mickey wends his way over to his side, and Ian’s arm wraps around his shoulder and Mickey gets an arm around Ian’s waist so he can lean in against him and the world rights itself again.

Clay’s in the middle of speaking. “She always used to give us these little store bought cookies with gummy red jam in the center. Loved those. And sun tea. Ginger loved to make sun tea on the porch in the summer.” 

“Learning all about Aunt Ginger now,” Ian whispers in Mickey’s ear, his lips against Mickey’s ear. 

“She was your dad’s sister?” V asks. 

Clay nods. “One of eight.”

Jesus. So many Gallaghers.

“Has the house changed a lot?” Debbie asks. 

Clay looks around the room. “In some ways. She never had the furniture set up like this. Sofa always used to be over there. But the wallpaper’s the same, and the stairs. God, I remember sliding down those with Frank and Jerry so many times. Makes me feel like I’m six years old.”

“Jerry’s another brother?” V asks.

Clay nods. “Frank, Jerry, me, and Wyatt,”

At the mention of Frank, Mickey can feel Ian’s entire body tense up. They haven’t actually talked about it, but Mickey knows Ian has been low-key panicked that Frank might appear this evening, as he often does, and fuck everything up. The asshole does have a sixth sense for food and booze. But none of them have seen Frank for weeks. Mickey runs his hand up and down Ian’s side.

Debbie asks if Clay wants to tour the rest of the house, see how it has changed. She seems fucking fascinated. They head up the stairs. 

“You okay?” Mickey whispers to Ian. 

Ian turns his head and lands a kiss on Mickey’s lips. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

*

They eat buffet style on paper plates to make clean-up less of a hassle. Mickey and Ian end up sharing one end of the sofa, Clay nearby on a chair pulled out from the kitchen. Clay takes a big bite of ham and looks around the room. 

“I love this,” he says with a chuckle, eyeing his plastic utensils. “You know, one Christmas, Lucy and I had a huge fight because I wanted to serve crab to her family and we didn’t have enough crab forks, if you can imagine.”

Mickey almost chokes on his potatoes. Ian says, “What’s a crab fork?”

“Just these small forks for crab. Ridiculous really. So much of what we cared about is ridiculous.”

Mickey can feel Ian thinking next to him. “Can you only eat crab with them?” Ian asks at last. 

“You really obsessing on fucking crab forks?” Mickey asks, swigging her beer.

“I can’t picture them. Could you use them to eat other small things?” 

Mickey rubs his hand down his face, because fuck, he loves his dumbass husband so fucking much. “How stoned are you?”

Ian nudges him in his ribs. “I’m not stoned.”

“Next time you two come out to my place, we’ll have crab with crab forks, and you can try it out. I still own half a set of them after the divorce,” Clay says, scooping up a big bite of potatoes.

Mickey’s trying to figure out what to even say to this offer when Ian screws up his face again and says, "How small are they?"

Mickey has to shove Ian in the shoulder at that, because whatever size the stupid crab forks are, Clay's still inviting them in, even when all they can offer him is plastic utensils in return.

*

Mickey’s text alert buzzes as they finish dessert- Liam’s fruitcake, moist and wafting orange liquor, and Kev and V’s crazily decorated cookies. Liam is beaming. 

Mickey pats Ian’s knee as he stands up to wander into the kitchen for a beer and to see who’s on his phone. 

**Mandy** _Happy Christmas to you too, asshole. Tell Ian I’m doing okay. Miss you. Call me._

Fuck. Mickey sits down on the bottom step and reads the text again. 

_Call me._

His sister hasn’t been in touch in two years. 

Mickey’s starting to understand why his family never really celebrated this damn holiday. There’s too much. Everything gets stirred up. It fucking hurts. 

He reads the text from Mandy again, running his fingers over the letters on the screen. 

“Mick, Clay wants to walk us around a few blocks, show us the old house that he grew up in, couple other things. Wanna come?” Ian asks as he walks into the room, bringing in some plates to dump in the garbage. Mickey can feel it the moment he notices. “Mick?” 

Mickey holds out his phone to Ian, needing to blink his eyes clear. 

Ian stares at the screen for a long moment. “So,” he says. “Christmas, eh?” 

Mickey lets out a little huffing laugh that might also be a bit of a sob. 

Ian reaches out his hand. “You coming with?”

Mickey looks out at the lights of the tree, at the half-eaten ham, at the slices of fruitcake on the counter, at the little words on his phone screen. He grabs onto Ian’s hand. “Of course I’m fucking coming with you, Firecrotch," he says.

Ian pulls him into a soft kiss and grabs at Mickey's ass. "Yep, that's the one."

*


	5. Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't manage to get this finished before Christmas, but hopefully a few of us are still in the spirit for this last chapter! Not at all Season 11 compliant in any way, for better or worse. Here's to making it past these last few days of 2020!

*

The evening starts winding down. Kev and V have to get the girls home; Gemma’s already asleep, curled up on the floor by the tree. Debbie and Sandy take Franny upstairs after a round of good night kisses, Mickey befuddled by the sudden affection of little arms around his neck, a press of tiny lips, and a soft, “I love you, Uncle Mouse.” 

Clay’s already got his coat and scarf on when he perches next to Mickey on the sofa holding a small gift bag. 

Mickey doesn’t have a clue what to do. 

“Before we go. Just a little something for you,” Clay says, holding out the bag.

Mickey glances around but no one else is watching them. Ian’s not even in the room. 

“For now?” Mickey asks, gingerly taking the present from Clay. He honestly doesn’t know. 

“Up to you,” Clay says.

Mickey pulls out the paper stuffed on top and peers into the bag. Despite the drowsy low of too much food and beer, his heart is hammering in his chest. 

“Now be careful with the gummies. The guy at the store said that it can take up to an hour to really feel the high, so be patient. I got myself some too, but I haven’t tried them yet. And the handwarmers are for work. Keep ‘em in your pockets for when you need them.”

Mickey stares at the little collection of items in the bag, at the little things Clay had thought of for him. He can’t get any words to come out, just shakes his head and thinks about the number of times in his life that he’s received a thoughtful gift from someone. It’s a short list, almost all Ian. 

As if conjured by his thoughts, Ian is suddenly there, sliding in next to Mickey on the sofa and eyeing the little bag. “Exchanging presents?” 

Mickey’s blood runs cold because Ian must know he doesn’t have jack shit to give to Clay, hadn’t even thought of it. But the asshole just throws an arm around Mickey’s shoulders and passes a wrapped gift over to Clay like this had been a plan all along. “From us.”

“Well, that was just not necessary, boys,” Clay says. 

Ian’s hand rubs a calming circle on Mickey’s shoulder, like he knows how far out of his depth Mickey is floundering at this moment, even with Ian’s confident _us_. 

Clay pulls the wrapping paper open. “Oh, this is wonderful. Thank you,” Clay says. Mickey tries not to crane too obviously to see. 

It’s one of their wedding photos in a frame. He’d had no idea Ian had done that. Fuck. Ian’s arm tightens even harder around his shoulder. Clay looks at the picture like it might really mean something to him, gets quiet for a moment. 

“This will go right in with the family photos on the wall,” he says softly.

Mickey’s not sure what he feels. He’s pretty drunk and very full, and _family_ is never a word he can toss around casually. But there’s a warmth in his chest even as his leg starts to jitter. Ian’s arm doesn’t let go.

They pull themselves up and follow Clay to the door where Jacob is waiting, holding the empty roasting pan and still laughing with Lip about something. 

“Hopefully the first of many,” Clay says in farewell as they head out into the night. 

*

Ian drags Mickey back to the sofa and pulls him down next to him, peppering his cheek with a few little kisses. “Fuck. We did it, Mick,” he sighs into Mickey’s hair.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had something for Clay?” Mickey asks.

Ian’s body stills before he says, “Wasn’t sure I was gonna give it to him until the last minute.” 

They’re figuring it out, Mickey remembers. Ham and edibles and picture frames and handwarmers are all tiny parts of something that isn’t fully formed yet. 

“Wait a fucking minute,” Mickey mutters in Ian’s ear. “Clay didn’t give you anything.”

Ian whispers back, right against Mickey’s skin. “He did. Earlier. I’ll show you later.” He pulls back and catches Mickey with that fucking gaze, the one that makes Mickey feel like his heart might explode. 

Ian kisses him in the glowing light of the tree, and Mickey thinks about Mandy’s text on his phone, and about the word _family_.

*

The remaining Gallaghers gather in the kitchen at the end of the evening. Lip, Carl, and Ian work on the dishes together, gentle banter between them filling the room. Mickey grabs two full garbage bags, hoping to take a moment for a cigarette while he’s outside. 

He dumps the trash then lights up and stares out at the Christmas lights down the block, enjoying the silence, the crispness of the cold air after the stifling house full of bodies all evening. 

“Was that my brother?” 

“Jesus fucking hell shitballs!” Mickey shouts as his heart rockets, turning on whoever the fuck just crept up on him. “Don’t sneak up on me. You wanna get fucking shot?”

“You got a gun on you?” Frank asks, because it is Frank, of course, like a miserable ghost of Christmas present, sidled up silently right next to Mickey. 

“Ugh, fuck. Where the hell have you been, Frank?” Mickey asks, easing away to get out of his alcoholic stink, taking a long drag to calm his shit down. 

“Gary, mostly,” Frank says. “Lots of good things going on in Gary, Indiana, Mickey. You’d like it.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “That so? Then why the fuck are you here?” Mickey’s heart is settling after the initial shock of Frank’s appearance, and now all he can think about is how much he wants to keep this moron from fucking up the evening for everyone else still inside. For Ian.

Frank stares at him. “Why was my brother here?” 

It suddenly occurs to Mickey that Frank had appeared at his shoulder from behind, like he’d maybe been hanging out next to the house. Maybe he’d even been there for a while; he’s shivering pretty hard. 

“Mick, you need help?” Ian appears on the porch with a dish towel over his shoulder. Mickey feels it the moment he sees Frank standing there, how his shoulders shift, his jaw tightens. “Oh Jesus. Frank.”

“Merry Christmas, son!” Frank shouts. 

Mickey can see Ian shake his head a little, but then sigh and trot down the steps to where Mickey and Frank are standing in the yard, his breath visible in hard puffs. 

“Just asking your spouse here about ol’ Clayton Peter Gallagher. Saw him leaving. Didn’t know he was back in the neighborhood.”

“He’s not. Just trying to get to know him,” Ian says. Mickey’s learned to recognize the resigned tone Ian falls into when talking to Frank, a weird mix of impatient and tolerant that he doesn't use with anyone else. 

“Wouldn’t want to think you were trying to replace your dear ol’ dad,” Frank says with an awkward laugh.

Mickey would punch Frank in the throat if he didn’t know that Ian would hate that. 

“Nah, you’re one of a kind, Frank,” Ian says. “But you could try talking to him sometime.”

“Could have tonight,” Mickey adds. “Instead of lurking around like fucking Gollum until he left.”

Frank shoos the idea away like a bothersome fly, but Mickey’s pretty sure they’ve hit Frank right where it hurts, maybe as good as a fist.

Ian folds his arms, looking at the ground. “You want a plate of food, Frank?” Ian asks, because, despite everything, he still seems to have some sort of soft spot for this ass. 

Frank holds up his hands like he’s surrendering. “No need. Just passing by, boys. Got places to be, people to see. No lonely Christmas Eve for Frank Gallagher, no sir. Don’t you worry about me.” He slopes off down the sidewalk, gait uneven and halting. He doesn’t even have gloves on.

“Send our holiday greetings to the people of Gary, Frank,” Mickey calls after him. Frank flips him off over his shoulder and walks on.

Mickey edges up next to Ian and they stare together at Frank’s retreating shape down the block. 

“Think he actually has somewhere to go?” Ian says quietly.

“Dunno,” Mickey replies.

“He’s still my dad,” Ian says, voice full of wonder. “Why is that?”

Mickey takes Ian’s hand in his own. It’s bitterly cold. “You figure that shit out, let me know,” he says. 

*

Inside, Ian shows him the book Clay gave to him. It’s a hardbound copy of Sherlock Holmes stories. 

“Read what he wrote in it,” Ian says.

Mickey flips open the cover. _To Ian, We didn’t get to read these tales together when you were younger. Hope you and Mickey can enjoy them now. They are some of my favorites. Sincerely, Clay_

“Fuck, okay,” Mickey says.

“I know,” Ian replies, eyes searching as Mickey looks up from the book. “What do I do with that?”

Mickey knows what Ian’s really asking, something complex and layered about fathers and sons, but it’s late on Christmas Eve, and they are both worn out. “Seems like you should read me a fucking story,” he says. 

Ian pulls the book out of Mickey’s hands and leans in to kiss him. “Yeah?”

Mickey nods, feeling the weight of Mandy's message, Frank's visit, Clay's hopefulness. “Yeah.”

*

Later, in bed, tangled up together and exhausted, Ian leans in close, eyes troubled, and runs his thumbs across Mickey’s cheeks. 

“You’re crying, Mick,” he says. 

“Am not.” Mickey doesn’t cry. What the fuck would he have to cry about?

“We can just stay in here tomorrow, you know. Try a few of those gummies. Turn off our phones. Fuck Christmas.” Ian’s still wiping gently at Mickey’s eyes.

“Who said I’m sharing the gummies?” Mickey says. His cheeks are fucking wet. Ian’s big hands hold onto him. 

“So now you’re a crying asshole?”

“Not fucking crying.” 

“Okay.”

Mickey tucks his face against Ian’s chest, listening to the slow beat of his heart, and doesn’t even try to stop the tide that flows out of him and soaks into Ian’s shirt and against his skin. 

*

Mickey wakes up with a start. He wasn’t supposed to fall asleep. They were meant to sneak downstairs and fill the stockings together before sleeping. 

He shakes Ian by the shoulder. “Fuck. Ian. The stocking shit.” 

Ian doesn’t open his eyes. “I did it, Mick. After you fell asleep.”

“Oh.” Mickey’s not sure how he feels about that. They were planning to do it together. 

“You’ve never had a Christmas morning,” Ian says, voice sleep rough, rolling towards Mickey and pulling him in by the hips. “More fun if you weren’t the one filling your own stocking.”

“That sounds dirty, Gallagher,” Mickey says.

Ian’s hair is the only color Mickey can see in the dim early morning light. God, he loves him so fucking much.

Just as things are starting to get interesting, a certain slow rub of legs and hands and lips, there’s an excited tap on the door. 

“Uncle Ian, Uncle Mouse! Santa came!” 

They break their kiss. 

“Hear that, Mick?” Ian asks, a little grin making his eyes twinkle. “Santa!”

*

The living room looks like a tornado hit; not so much that they had so many gifts to open, because they really didn’t. It’s just that no one has picked up one piece of destroyed wrapping paper or one opened box. Mickey looks around the room and kind of loves it, the look of heedless destruction.

Aside from the little shit for the stockings, Mickey had only given one gift, a small set of weights for Ian. He’s bought it off of Tim last week when he came by the Alibi with his van full of goods, origins unknown, but the price was fucking right. Ian’d only ever had a couple of random single weights, and his face when he’d seen the set was pretty much enough to keep Mickey going for years. That fucking half-smile, little head shake, a sudden, open-mouthed kiss. Then he’d promptly set that shit up and started doing squats, much to Franny’s delight, who immediately joined him. 

Mickey gets a lot more gifts than he gives. New socks from Debbie, a forty of Old Style from Carl, a homemade card with a drawing of an eagle from Liam. When Lip and Tami arrive, they give him a sweet Leatherman with like eight different tools on it. Even his stocking has a bunch of shit in it that he knows Ian didn’t put there: a pack of cigarettes, a new lighter, a lottery ticket. Ian’s gift to him is a coffee mug featuring a picture of _Under Siege_ -era Steven Seagal, and how the fuck he managed to find such a thing makes Mickey’s brain hurt. The stone in his guts settles hard and Ian seems to know because the asshole can’t stop holding his hand or running his fingers along the back of his neck.

“For Mickey, from Santa,” Franny says proudly, bringing over a large box to Mickey. 

“How the fuck do I have a present from Santa?” Mickey asks, eyeing Ian. 

Franny jumps up and down in front of him. “Because he comes down the chimney and leaves you presents when you’re good, Uncle Mouse!”

Ian grins and raises his eyebrows knowingly. “That is how it works, I think, Mick.”

It’s a new toaster. 

Mickey stares at it for a long time, and Ian holds his hand.

*

When most of the family heads into the kitchen to start breakfast, Mickey removes himself to the front porch for a smoke and a moment to himself. He keeps checking his cheeks to be sure he’s not leaking again without permission, that the overwhelm isn’t just seeping out of him. 

He can still hear voices and laughter from inside the house. A car pulls up. Uber.

Then, because why the fuck not, because goddamn _Christmas_ , Fiona Gallagher is standing there on the sidewalk, a little suitcase at her side, staring up at him. 

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, looking back quickly into the house to be sure that no one else has noticed yet.

“Merry Christmas to you too, Mickey.” She looks the same, like she’s just returned from a walk to the park: big smile, woolly hat, and huge parka. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” He stands and leans out towards the street, trying to keep his voice quiet. 

Fiona heads up the stairs. “It’s a surprise?” she says. But when she hits the middle of the steps, her smile turns hesitant and she looks over at Mickey.

“Everyone in there?” she asks. 

“Fuck.” Mickey rubs a hand over his face. Fiona. Jesus. “Yeah.”

“Is something wrong? Is Ian okay?” she asks him, her eyes wide. 

“Yeah, man. He’s great. But fuck, you really just dropping in out of nowhere like this?” 

Fiona is staring up at the house, and her look isn’t so different from Clay’s the night before, like it might be more than she bargained for to walk up those steps. She stops right next to Mickey and puts down her suitcase.

When she doesn’t move, Mickey holds out his cigarettes. “Smoke first?” he asks her. 

Fiona grimaces. “No.”

She stares back up at the house again for a long moment, expression sort of spooked like she might just bolt, and then without a word she grabs the pack and lighter out of Mickey’s hand. She turns around and sits down on the steps.

Mickey takes another drag of his cigarette and sits down next to her, weirdly relieved that she’s on pause for a moment. 

“Everyone’s gonna flip their shit when you walk in.” 

“You think?” she asks, and he thinks she might really not be sure.

“Uh. Yes,” he confirms. 

She lights up the cigarette and takes a long drag. Then she nods toward his hand.

“Jesus. You’re really married,” she says. 

Mickey looks down at the ring on his finger. “Fuck yes, we are,” he says. It still feels so damn good to say that out loud.

Fiona smiles a sad little half-smile, so much like her brother. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’m really happy for you guys.”

“Ian missed you,” Mickey says. He’d missed her too, if he’s honest. She’s been missing.

“There’s a lot of things I wish I could do over, Mickey.”

Mickey knows Ian needs to hear that more than he does, but it still makes something settle in his chest. “We’ve all got that shit. I guess you can feel like crap about it if that’s your thing, but you can’t change it.” Easy to say, Mickey thinks, listening to himself. It’s the doing that’s the bitch.

Fiona hums a little sound as she takes another long drag. “You guys having a good Christmas so far?”

Mickey thinks about the last few hours, days, weeks. “Yeah. Good. Liam made an actual fruitcake.”

Fiona laughs, and her eyes get a little watery. “You have to go deal with your family today?” she asks.

Mickey feels his belly tense like he's been punched. “Ian didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Mickey tries to figure out what the hell is happening in his life that he’s sitting here on Christmas morning sharing a smoke with Fiona fucking Gallagher, spilling shit all over the place. But his mouth keeps fucking talking. “My asshole pop tried to shoot a couple dudes, got caught. Couldn’t weasel out of it. Managed to get himself recorded on about seven different security cameras at this motel, yelling about killing fags and shit. He finally fucked himself. Never getting out.” There's more to tell her, obviously, but that's all that comes right now. Mickey’s not sure why he’s suddenly able to say any of this to her. He’s hardly talked about that day at all since it happened.

“Jesus.” 

There’s nothing more to say to a story like that, not really, and Fiona doesn’t try. It’s something he’s always liked about her, actually, that she doesn’t use too many words when a few are enough. 

She taps her ash thoughtfully and then looks at Mickey, eyes full of feeling. “Does that mean you're going full Gallagher now?”

Mickey tosses his cigarette over the railing. “Nah, man,” he says honestly, because why stop now. “Think I went full Gallagher years ago.”

Fiona smiles at that, shakes her head, and stubs out her smoke. 

“Okay, I think I’m ready to do this,” she says, pulling herself up. 

“You gotta go first,” Mickey says, his guts already churning. “I don’t wanna get fucking trampled.”

“Merry Christmas, Mickey.” Fiona reaches for the door knob, takes a deep breath, and walks inside.

Mickey peers in after her, not quite ready to follow yet. “Yeah, guess maybe it fucking is,” he mutters to himself.

The screams from the kitchen would be bloodcurdling if Mickey didn’t know they were from joy. 

*

Ian finds Mickey a few minutes later, standing by the tree and looking at the lights while the laughs and hugs and crying continue from the kitchen. Ian doesn’t say anything, just walks right up into Mickey’s personal space, chest-to-chest and hip-to-hip, drapes his arms over Mickey’s shoulders, and kisses him like he’s fucking starving. 

“I must taste like shit,” Mickey says when he can, getting his hands up under Ian’s shirt and onto the smooth skin of his back. “I’ve been smoking like a chimney.”

Ian nods, his forehead pressing against Mickey’s, a goony, sappy grin on his big, beautiful face. “Fucking disgusting,” he says. “I love it. I love you.”

“Yeah, well, I fucking love you, too.” Mickey will never get tired of saying it.

Mickey’s phone rings in his back pocket. They both groan at the interruption. Mickey thumbs it on, ready to hit dismiss.

 **Mandy** the screen says. Incoming call.

Their eyes meet and all Mickey can feel is Ian’s arms, there to hold him up. 

Mickey takes the call. 

*


End file.
